


Always Remembered

by nyxocity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Fix-It, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda fix-it to episode 8x03, Heartache. Sam remembers back further than that day in the park, and how there was someone who never forgot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> Running with the theory that Sam is being messed with somehow with his memories of Amelia.

Sam had thought they had the upper hand on this monster until the moment it slices through his stomach with its claws, throwing him to the ground, and he’s going to be this thing’s dinner, doesn’t even have the split second to regret before he’s gone.

//

_Sam._

The voice is indistinct and far away, but he knows it, recognizes it…

//

“What? Haven’t you ever seen a birthday cake before?” Amelia asks, and she’s beautiful, smiling, from where the picnic basket is, white frosted cake next to her, Sam’s name written on it in red, glossy, gel, just underneath the words “Happy Birthday”.

He’s never… no one has ever… and for a moment, he’s so overwhelmed by the emotion that seizes him. She remembered his birthday. No one has ever—

//

“Sam! Sam, wake up.”

//

“Sam, wake up,” Jess whispers, her mouth pressing against his, sweet insistent kiss, dragging him from sleep. His eyes flutter open to her smiling face.

“Hey you,” she smiles, face lighting up like the sun, like it always does when he looks at her, lips brushing his again. He wraps his arms around her, pulls her in, kissing back, and she tastes sweet, faintest hint of minty toothpaste.

She giggles, pulling away after a moment and grabbing him by the hand. “Come on,” she urges, grinning at him. “I made breakfast.”

//

“Sammy! Please. Come on, come back to me, come on, you have to.”

//

“You’re thirty-two years old, and no one has ever gotten you a birthday cake?” Amelia asks, smiling as she shakes her head. Her expression is rueful, but she smiles, kindly.

“No,” Sam utters, and it’s all he can manage to say.

“You poor thing,” she whispers, lips meeting his beneath the shining sun.

//

“Come on,” Jess laughs, tugging Sam toward the kitchen, and Sam laughs back, not exactly understanding, but loving how happy she is.

There’s a homemade cake on the kitchen table that says “Happy Birthday, Baby,” and he is twenty, as many years old as the candles topping the cake.

“Jess…” he breathes.

“Cake for breakfast,” she says and kisses him.

//

“Blow out the candles,” Amelia whispers. “Make a wish.”

A wish.

He is thirty-two. Two years older than Dean was when he died. When he died on Sam’s birthday.

He died for Sam. He died so Sam could live.

He only has one wish, breath exhaling from his lungs in a quick shot.

//

“Sam. Sammy. Jesus fucking Christ, please.”

Far away, so far away. The world running out like water swirling around a drain.

//

He is four years old, the first memory he can remember clearly, candles burning on a cake, Dean sitting across from him, his face cut in sharp orange light and shadow inside the motel room.

“Make a wish, Sammy.”

The grin on Dean’s face makes him smile back, and even if Dad isn’t here, Dean is, and Dean didn’t forget.

Sam inhales and then blows, candles flickering out.

//

“Sam, don’t you fucking die on me. Don’t you dare.”

//

Dean never forgot.

Not once.

//

Sam wakes, coughing weakly at the sight of his brother’s face.

“Sam?” Dean demands, shaking him, and the emotion in his face—the relief, the _love_.

He remembers turning four, he remembers turning five, six, seven—Dean never forgot. Not ever, not once. Dean always brought him a cake, even if it was a fucking cupcake or Hostess Snowball with a single candle—just like he never forgot to make sure Sam had Christmas presents, even if he had to steal them. Even if they were Barbie dolls he tried to explain away when Sam was old enough to figure it out.

Dean never forgot.

“Dean,” he breathes, hands rising, clutching tight at the lapels of his brother’s jacket.

“Sam,” Dean hisses with relief, “Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I lost you. Are you okay?” Dean asks, looking at Sam the same intent way he’s looked at Sam over all the years, and Sam thinks he’s never appreciated it more than he does right now.

He remembers turning four, five, six, every time up until he turned eighteen and told Dean he was leaving. Dean made sure he had a birthday, every fucking year, and whatever force tried to make him remember differently…

//

“I’m sorry no one ever remembered your birthday until now,” Amelia whispers, and Sam leans in beside her on the blanket, kisses her mouth.

//

Jesus, how did he even get there? How had she ever convinced him?

He’s not nearly as far from home as he’d thought he was. Whatever happened with Amelia, whatever has been wrong with his head, they’ll figure that out later, but right now, Dean is _here_ , within inches of his mouth, and he leans up, his lips meeting his brother’s, biting at Dean’s lower lip.

“I’m okay,” Sam answers. And he is; he’s not bleeding out, he’s not dying.

He’s okay, and everything he knows is Dean, touching him, kissing him back.

He is thirty-two, and this is all he’s ever needed.

  
  



End file.
